


Pictures of a Story

by sailingthenightsea



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, So much angst, artist!Clarke, coffee shop AU, modern day AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 21:12:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7480194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailingthenightsea/pseuds/sailingthenightsea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern day AU</p><p>Clarke Griffin spends nearly every afternoon in the corner of a coffee shop painting, and Raven wonders what her story is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pictures of a Story

She's sitting in a booth in the back of her favorite little café. The sounds of strangers chattering cheerfully and the scents of fresh muffins and coffee are pushed to the back of her mind. The pencil between her fingers has become a part of her body as she pours every unspoken word out, filling pages with heartbreak and wishes that never come true. The girl with the messy blonde hair piled into a bun on top of her head loses herself in her artwork, the full cup of coffee long since cooled next to her. 

She's there nearly every day in the same spot always drawing something. It takes the girl, Raven, nearly a month to find out that her name is Clarke Griffin. 

Clarke doesn't seem to want to make conversation, so Raven just tends to leave her alone. She's caught glimpses of sketches; they're mostly of a man with dark curls and freckles like stars mapping out the heavens. The man never looks happy, not sad, just not _happy_.

Other days, Clarke paints constellations. She paints mythological and historical beings and scenes. She paints moments from times long gone like she's trying to piece together a story that spans thousands of years. 

By the time she leaves, her fingers are stained and there's a raw look in her eyes like she's just relived the worst moments of her life. Raven never asks what's wrong and Clarke rarely makes eye contact other than to cast a grateful glance every now and then the barista's way. 

It goes on for nearly six months before something changes. 

When Clarke walks in today, there's an electric charge in the air, as if the universe knows what's going to happen and it's either nervous or excited or both. It feels like those moments in stories when everything is about to change and nothing can stop it. Clarke feels the anticipation and nerves like a weight in the pit of her stomach, and it makes her want to scream. 

It isn't until a young man, maybe a year older than Clarke, comes into the diner. He's all wild curls and hidden scars; his soul feels steady and well worn, as if he has been carrying the universe on his shoulders. His dark eyes are soft and kind, yet guarded, and he pushes his glasses back up his nose. It's the freckles splattered across the boy's cheeks that Raven first recognizes. She sees flashes of Clarke's sketches going through her mind: the man, the stars, the old stories. She realizes that his eyes are in every man she's seen Clarke draw. 

She sees that the two have a few matching scars both on their skin and on their hearts. 

Suddenly she feels like she's finished a puzzle that she didn't know she started. 

When the man orders a black coffee in the quiet diner, Clarke's head snaps up, her eyes immediately latching onto him. He doesn't seem to notice the heat of her gaze as Raven gets his order. He pays and starts to leave when suddenly, "Bell?"

He freezes. 

It feels like the air has been sucked out of the restaurant. 

He turns, the sounds around him drowned out by the pounding of his own heart in his ears. His stomach flips in some kind of twisted mixture of fear and hope.

When their eyes meet, the air is knocked out of his lungs and he feels his heart shattering all over again into a brilliant disaster of love and hope and trust all spilled like blood at his feet. Hot tears glitter and dance on her cheeks and drip off of her chin, splattering onto her torn jeans. Her knuckles are white from how desperately she grips at the table and the booth she finds herself still sitting in as if maybe if she holds on tight enough the old piece of furniture will have the power to guard her from the storm brewing in their hearts. 

And then he breaths and the world comes crashing down around them in the deathly silence. She feels the flames licking at her skin and he feels the radiation in his bones. 

And then she stands, her entire body quaking with the force of their emotions. He tentatively steps forward as if he's afraid that if he moves to quickly, then she'll run. It destroys her to know that he has a damn good reason to think that. And the scars she left on him are on fire again but he can't bring himself to care because, _fuck_ , he still loves this whirlwind of a girl even after all this time. His coffee cup is set on a table and immediately forgotten because he's a foot away from her and, _fuck_ , she still loves him more than anything in this whole damned world and that scares the hell out of her. 

And then he murmurs a hello, and she laughs. It is a blend of joy and hope and sadness and fear. He chuckles softly, his chest rumbling with the sound. She chokes on a sob, still laughing, before she wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in the crook of his neck. 

His arms close around her warm body, and it feels like something is falling into place. For the two of them it feels as though they've finally made sense of the messy world they live in, even if only for a few heart beats. 

"I'm sorry, Bell," Clarke whispers, a little broken. 

He pulls back enough to look at her and smiles a little sadly, "It's okay, princess."

She sniffles and looks up at him with tears in her bright blue eyes. "No, no, I ran away. I _left_ you. You're supposed to hate me."

He chuckles again. "Shit, Clarke, I _tried_. I really really wanted to _hate_ you," she flinches, "but you just did what you had to do."

"But--"

"I've had two years to figure out how I felt about you running, princess, and I get it."

She stares at the man before her in wonder while memories of the two of them flash through her mind. 

She remembers meeting him for the first time when she decided that he was her new best friend whether he liked it or not (he didn't mind at all; he didn't have many friends back then). She was in kindergarten and he was in first grade, but that never mattered. 

She remembers doing homework together (she was always ahead of her class, so it worked). She remembers the snacks his mom would give them. 

She remembers playing pretend with him and Octavia, who was two years younger than Clarke, becoming different people with all sorts of different lives. They knew that they could leave the faded town they grew up in for just a little while. 

She remembers being twelve years old and falling in love with him. 

She remembers being fourteen when they first kissed. 

She remembers fifteen and 2am giggling and drunk off saying "I love you" for the first time. 

She remembers being sixteen and running away when her father died of cancer, and Bellamy finding her that night curled up on a bus bench a town over and shaking with the force of her tears. 

She remembers him holding her hand so tightly she was sure the bones would splinter all through his mom's funeral only a year after her father's. 

She remembers him holding her hair when she'd had too much to drink and getting her to bed safely. 

She remembers the absent touches and the soft kisses. 

And she remembers the bitter taste in her mouth when she realized they weren't children anymore. She remembers being eighteen and her mom pressuring her to go to medical school when she just wanted to be an artist. She remembers the breaking point. She remembers throwing what she needed into a duffel bag and leaving. She remembers deciding not to go to Bellamy. 

She remembers driving away and staying in a hotel where she opened her college letters. She remembers the pure joy when she sees that she got into Parsons. 

She remembers writing Bellamy a letter explaining why she had to leave. 

She's twenty years old now and she's missed him like a part of her was gone. Now that he's here standing in front of her, she realizes that she gave him her heart so long ago, but she never asked for it back. 

She wonders if it's the same for him. 

For the first time since he walked in, she wonders if he's found someone else. 

The fear must show on her face because he leans in ever so slightly as if asking her permission. She almost laughs. _He's_ asking _her_. 

But instead Clarke tilts her head and their worlds come crashing together. When their lips meet, his arms wrap around the small of her back nearly lifting her off of her feet, and her fingers card into his curls. The kiss is quiet and careful. It's exploring and relearning each other. When they break, they're smiling, resting their foreheads together. 

Bellamy sits across the table from Clarke who clears a place for him. For the first time since Clarke had started coming in here, Raven sees her with a light, cheery air to her. She actually drinks her entire coffee while talking to the man; she seems to completely forget about her art. 

Raven smiles: she'd been wondering about the girl's story, wondering why she was so sad. She could guess now. 

When the two leave hand in hand, Raven flashes Clarke a smile which the girl easily returns.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!!
> 
> Kudos and comments make my day!! :)))


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